


future nostalgia

by constellnation



Category: The Last Kids on Earth (Cartoon)
Genre: Action, Eventual Romance, F/M, Foster Care, Headcanon, How Do I Tag, M/M, Middle School, Pre-Apocalypse, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:41:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25014886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/constellnation/pseuds/constellnation
Summary: Wakefield is awake.When the crew gets thrown back into time, the dilemma of surviving an unexpected 'pre-apocalypse' becomes harder than they expected.
Relationships: June Del Toro/Jack Sullivan, OC/OC, Quint Baker/Dirk Savage
Comments: 25
Kudos: 64





	1. hallucinate

**Author's Note:**

> hi :)
> 
> it's honestly been a while, and i figured that since my writer's block has kinda' been cured? i'd try writing a longer fanfiction. let's just see how far my commitment can take this.
> 
> enjoy reading!  
> gaya

**JACK**

_It’s_ _dark._

Sorta’.

I mean, it _was_ dark. But it’s _not_ dark anymore when you’re lying flat on your back, eyes wide open, sunlight pouring on your face. Disturbingly bright.

For a slight second, something was squeezing my eyes shut, blocking me from seeing everything. I don’t remember much about how I suddenly lost sight of my surroundings, but I do remember that the aftermath was less reassuring than I had expected it to be.

I’m pretty sure I'm halfway through a bad dream and a bad real-life moment, breathing heavily with an aching headache and a _serious_ hallucination vibe. _I’m_ _not even kidding._

You see, I don’t really recall going to bed. I don’t even remember sleeping in something that isn’t a pile of unwashed laundry. I don’t remember having scattered LEGO pieces on the floor beside my desk drawer and leaving all my worn-out Star Wars posters up on the wall.

  
So . . .where am I?   
  
It sounds like the kind of question every main character in a fiction movie asks halfway through the ‘excitingly anxious’ part. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard it being said- without leaving out the saddening part where no one knows much more than the main character themselves, and so there isn’t a valid answer. The character is _stuck._   
  
But it doesn't take me too long to realize that I'm back at home. I’m not stuck anywhere. Or, at least, not for now.   
Home is still the wrong description for it. I've not really ever considered it my "home".   
  
I’m in my old house— in the Robinson’s house. My old foster family lived here, before they hightailed it out of Wakefield right during the start of the monster-apocalypse, leaving me behind. So much for potential parental figures that keep forgetting your first name and think ordering you around is the best way to keep you disciplined.

But, why? Why am I here? Are the Robinson’s back? And what about my friends? Where are they?   
My brain is aching with all these questions buzzing around. It could be a nightmare, some sort of trippy daydream. Just having to imagine half of any of this is giving me a giddy-feeling. Something’s off, big time. I can feel it.   
  
I get up, half expecting something to happen. It could still be some sort of trap. I'm too paranoid at this point.   
  
“ _Mr. Robinson? Mrs. Robinson?_ ”   
“ _Rocky?_ ”   
  
No reply. I don’t know why I’m calling out their names; I’m already one hundred percent sure they’re not here. If you hightail it out of Wakefield during an apocalypse, I don’t think you’re ever planning on coming back.   
  
My throat feels dry.   
“ _Quint?_ ” “ _June?_ ” “ _Dirk?_ ”   
  
Absolutely nothing.

  
How’d I even get into my house without the front door keys? Who put me to bed? And where _is_ everyone?

Then I pinch myself. Hard, so that I can really feel the pain and realise I’m overwhelmed and that I’m overreacting. It’s annoying to have one million questions in your head, half of which you can’t find the answer to, and the rest of them aren’t even questions a sane person would ask.    
_Trust me._

The pain slowly disappears, but the scene around me doesn’t, and I know I’m not dreaming. I feel like cursing, loudly and boldly; so that everyone can hear it.

But, right, there _is_ no one.   
The corridor outside is empty, and I figure I should see if there’s anyone around before I fully panic— even if I’m highly doubting that I’ll find anyone.   
  
The first wooden-floorboard I step on creaks loudly. A beautiful announcement of my presence. It should work.   
“Mr. and Mrs. Robinson? Rocky?”   
  
I don’t feel like entering every room, so I quietly inspect everything like an old-timey cop, ignoring the creaking of the floorboards along the way. If someone finds me - if there even is anyone around - let’s just say that I really wouldn’t be _too_ surprised.   
  
“Quint? Are you there, buddy? Please come out.”   
Silence. I sigh loudly, feeling exasperated that no one’s around to hear my frustration.   
  
“It’s not funny, you know. You can come out now, wherever you are.”   
  
This is weird. Like, unusually weird. I’m walking around calling my friends’ names, while they’re clearly not here. It doesn’t make sense, and I’m not able to make anything sensible of it. Where could they have gone?   
  
The guest-room next to my room is empty— I don’t know what I would have expected either way— so I walk in, feeling slightly unsure about the whole situation. What sort of sick prank would this be?   
  
Feeling disoriented, I fall onto the slightly bigger bed the Robinson’s had constantly refused to let me sleep in. Talk about a raw deal.    
The sheets crinkle, and I try to ignore the unkept patterns forming on the bedspread. My hand instantly goes to smooth the creases out.   
  
When I look up, I realise there’s a scratched and cracked vanity mirror right in front of the bed, an antique Mrs. Robinson absolutely didn’t want to get rid of, for obsolete reasons; and I slowly get back up and stare right back at my reflection.   
  
I’m still there, alright. One piece, mind the cuts and bruises from fighting all of those monsters. Dark-brown hair, blue eyes: I’m still irresistible.   
  
Right. Not now, Jack. Focus.   
  
I keep looking at myself in the mirror, the cracks in the surface clearly visible because of the sunlight. It isn’t the most usual sight. Me, standing in my Groot-themed pyjamas, looking at a cracked mirror in absolute silence.    
  
But the silence helps me think. And I keep thinking about how I’m here, so lost and confused, and about my friends, and what happened before all of this, and if it could be some sort of berserk daydream I’m making up to ease the sleep.   
  
And then it suddenly comes back to me, rushing and tumbling, all in a big hurry.   
“Oh, shoot- “, I whisper to myself, but that exclamation is left hanging in mid-air.   
  
I make my way to the window and pull the curtains aside, almost pushing my face against the windowpane. People —a fair amount of them— are walking down the street at a normal pace, without staggering and without those discoloured skin-tones and popping eyeballs. They’re talking and laughing and driving cars to work and bicycles to school.   
They’re acting like normal people.   
  
I feel that, now, I’m really starting to hallucinate. I pinch myself in the arm again, but it obviously doesn’t do any good. “Ouch.”   
  
It’s _unbelievable._

None of this makes any sense. It should be mid-August; Wakefield should be infested with beasts and the walking undead. It should be on the verge of falling apart, and people shouldn’t be walking around as if nothing has happened.   
  
But I know I’m just standing there in disbelief. The Wakefield I’ve always known is back, back to it’s normal self. _Nothing has happened._

No zombies. No monsters. No broken houses and apartments.   
No apocalypse.   
  
I spin around and run back to my room. The dog-themed calendar I got last Christmas is still hanging on the back of my bedroom door, the days leading up to the apocalypse not marked or crossed out yet.   
And then I read the date.   
  
Monday, the sixth of April.   
Today is the sixth of April.   
  
That time-portal really did it. We’re back to where we started.

* * *

It’s not easy to explain how this exactly happened. I wouldn’t know more than how this took place and happened. It feels like there’s _a lot_ to blame.

But, it’s also mainly _me_ you can blame.   
I sigh loudly, falling onto my bed, which _is_ considerably softer and more comfortable than landing in a pile of dirty laundry.   
  
All I can frustratedly think of is that good-for-nothing time-travelling portal, that we had discovered during on of our quests, back when the apocalypse had happened.   
It must’ve taken us back through time, to months before our lifestyle between the undead had settled.   
  
Portal. Stupid portal. _Useless_ and _not needed_ and _unnecessary_.   
I’m half debating if I should go to the treehouse and see if I can find valuable information or proof somewhere. There has to be something–   
  
Hold up.   
  
Shoot, shoot, shoot. The likelihood of cursing loudly when there’s no one at home has never really become a habit for me. I eye my alarm clock: 07:45.   
I’m _almost late._   
  
_Obviously_ those darned Robinson’s didn’t care if I woke up on time or not. Rocky’s probably already at school, laughing his head off because I’m late and most likely going to get a detention.   
It’s not like I’ve _never_ been late to school. The Robinson’s always leave as early as possible for work, and they really never offer to drop me off along with Rocky. I’m used to running two blocks to get to school before the gates close, but now I’m going to have to run even faster if I want to be on time. I have to reach Quint and June and Dirk as soon as possible.   
  
Quick thinking, like I’m on speed dial.   
Teeth, clothes, face, hair, shoes and socks. I’m lucky everything’s in the same place as before.   
Guess I’m going to have to visit the treehouse later. Damn it.   
I’m racing through the streets on my bicycle, the wind blowing my slightly unkept hair behind me. I’ve never realised how fast I could cycle. I’m guessing all those post-apocalyptic races against June paid off.

  
I keep shaking the thought of having to confront my friends. They’re probably dealing with the exact same problems. It’s not everyday that you get thrown back in time because your friend Jack can’t ever handle _not_ going on a dangerous mission and then “accidentally” leads you to enter a dimensional time-travelling portal during an end-of-the-world apocalypse.   
  
I’m out of breath and tired. It slowly dawns on me that I haven’t even eaten anything, _and_ that I’m late. _Ten minutes_ late.   
Crap.   
  
“Sullivan!”   
A man approaches me as soon as I sneak through the half-closed gates and lock up my bicycle. I don’t really know him, but his broad face rings a faint bell, and I’ve probably seen his zombie corpse somewhere around school. Thinking about that suddenly makes me want to run away from him. It’s not really a pretty sight in my mind.   
  
“You’re late,” he says, crossing his arms like a disappointed parent does when they’re disappointed in you. _Suit, pocket-watch, round glasses_ … he’s got the full attire of an old-timey school master. No wonder he’s so intimidating- he probably still lives in 1946.    
I’m just standing there, my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. Cycling under pressure is awfully tiring, believe me.

_Don’t_ _talk._ _Don’t_ _say anything. The faster_ _you’re_ _done, the faster_ _you’ll_ _get inside the school._

My inner voice is lawfully evil. The man continues speaking.

“This has been going on for a while, and I’ll find it that you agree with me. You’re late one more time, and I’m going to have to give you a detention.”

Detention, _right_.   
I saw that coming.

You see, the problem is that when you’re hanging out with your best friends during the apocalypse, you don’t really keep track of time- _unless_ _you’re_ _Quint_. I only had terrible and un-fascinating days of loneliness and boredom behind me, which I had finally gotten to forget _because_ of my non-family family. 

So, I think it’s more than obvious that I’m not going to start counting the amount of times I’ve been late to school while playing video-games with Dirk. Maybe five times, maybe more— there’s no way of knowing how many times I’ve crossed the line now.

Except for ideally coming late _— again._ But that’s not really a good idea when you’re dealing with an “almost” detention. And I know Mr. Robinson wouldn’t like to hear that. Grounded for a week.   
  
I’m trying to not look him in the eye, but I really don’t want to be rude. Detention is really _not_ what I need right now, especially from some old dude I’m pretty sure I’ve never met before.   
C _ome on, deep breath._

“Well, I’m waiting for an answer,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Why are you late?”

Putting emphasis on every word just makes it worse. I have to think up an excuse, right now, right here. _Work your magic, brain._

“Uh, well,” I start, scratching the back of my neck, “I left late, because- um, my alarm didn’t go off on time, sir.”

It’s out faster than you can say messed-up. _Stupid, stupid excuse. Couldn’t you think of anything better?_

He cocks an eyebrow, and it only makes me more nervous. What on earth is he going to think of that? Has he bought it? Is it valid enough to push that detention to, like, next month?

“I see. Head to your class now, and visit my office at the end of the week. I have to take up _some_ sort of punishment for this...tardiness.”

He’s clearly not buying it. I mean, this could’ve been last weeks’ excuse for all I know. Which idiot keeps their alarm off everyday anyway? 

He stalks off, hands behind his back. _Intimidating_ , alright.

I silently open the great glass door of the building. And once I’m inside, it all hits me at once.

I mean, it’s been literal _ages._

The school I hardly payed attention in, the school where I met my first best friend, where I had a middle-school bully and a seventh-grade crush and overly demanding teachers and smelly cafeteria food. I saw Parker Middle School break down during the apocalypse, but I honestly knew for a fact I wouldn’t be back inside again.    
No zombies, no threats. 

Just school stuff.

And still, here I am, proving that fact wrong. Standing in the hallway where Dirk pushed past me and Quint at least thrice a day. The same hallway where June kept ignoring me, where I slipped once and made a clown of myself. It’s really not as realistic as I would’ve imagined, but anything’s possible when you’ve been pushed back in time.

_Get it together and get it to class, Jack._ _You’re_ _wasting your time._

Right. First thing’s first.

Judging by my recent memory of the calendar I looked at in my room this morning, the mood in which the janitor is cleaning the hallway, and the dreary morning sun; it’s Monday, and I’m one hundred percent positive I have biology right now. I must’ve missed home room, but there’s nothing of that I can take with me right now.

I know June has English right now (call me a stalker, but all of this information comes in handy one day), and Quint and I have math next period. If I can’t reach them now, I’ll have to try later. It’s too risky.

Two minutes later and I’m standing in front of room A.05, _also_ known as the lab. I’ve never really made memories here, except for dissecting that disgusting frog in the first semester. Not something worth remembering.

Knock. Knock again. Then open the door.

It’s routine when you’re late. I’m sure Mr. Maxwell doesn’t mind me being late as much as other teachers, but I’m not sure how I’m going to deal with seeing all those faces again. I mean, I’ve seen most of them as the “walking dead of Wakefield”, and having to see them alive and well following a normal biology lesson is… sort of weird.

“Come in.”

I’m pushing the door open, hoping for the best. And there it is. Mr. Maxwell isn’t too amused by me coming late, but as soon as I crop his figure from my vision, I see the rest of the class. They’re all there, exactly like how biology went before the whole end of the world thing.

I let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding.

“So, Sullivan, are we going to sit down? Or has the door become your new seat?”   
Mr. Maxwell’s voice takes me by surprise. I sheepishly enter, trying to make as less eye-contact with everyone else in the room as possible. No one’s really laughing at me, but I’m not surprised at Zach Carson’s face. His ungodly obsession with making fun of me has never really reached it’s peak. I’m surprised he’s not saying the same stupid things, like, ‘wakey-wakey big mistakey’ or ‘look, it’s Rocky’s weird foster brother.’ Pretty sure he’s trying to make in the good books of all the teachers right now (not that he doesn’t try that most of the time).   
Typical.

But Zach’s an idiot, and I’m not stooping to his level.

I’m making my way to my seat, all the way at the back, when I realise people haven’t been looking at me out of sympathy for coming late.

They’ve been looking at my face.    
It’s covered in scars and bruises and extremely small cuts. I didn’t think about them until now, and I’m pretty sure _now_ is too late. 

I sit down, ignoring how everyone’s whispering a bit too much, and Maxwell starts talking to me again.

“Everyone, there’s no need to start talking when a student enters the classroom,” he loudly states. “Jack, I’ve gotten to hear you’ve been late quite a few times last week from Mr. Walker. He’s been monitoring students’ arrival-times at the gate. Anything to say about that?”

_Mr. Walker. So that’s tall-guy’s name… good to know._

I wasn’t even here last week. Hey, I don’t even know what kind of excuses I’ve been making in the past few days to cover up for being late. Like I said, today’s excuse _could_ be last weeks. I’m pretty forgetful.

But I can’t tell him that I’ve been fighting monsters in an end-of-the-world apocalypse. He’ll believe that my dog ate my homework more than any of that. And I don’t even _have_ a dog.

“Well, sir. . .I’m really sorry, but my alarm didn’t go off today, and, uh- that’s why I didn’t really get up on time.”

_Snickering_. I swear the zombie version of Zach was a whole lot better than his human-self. He said less _and_ looked better.

Like I said, if this lame excuse has already been used (and I’ve forgotten it due to poor memory of _useless_ things during the apocalypse), then I’m one hundred percent sure it’s not going to be easy to “reuse” it.

But Mr. Maxwell hasn’t reacted yet. No eyebrow-cocking, no weird glances.

“Hm, alright. Just, follow the lesson and keep track of time when you’re coming to school. I’m not going to repeat this. But, please remember; Mr. Walker has a strict policy on coming on time. I wouldn’t like seeing you all in detention.”

_He’s_ _bought it. Surprisi_ _ng_ _._

“Okay, everyone, time to finish last week's chapter on the digestive system…”

It’s not back to normal. . . no, I don’t think it’ll ever be. But the sun is shining and all I can hear are pencils scratching on paper and the occasional input from the teacher. Zach’s gone back to being a sickening teachers-pet; the way he writes his notes so diligently and sticks up his hand at every question, a sly smirk on his face.

But I missed it. I’m not hallucinating, this is happening, _for real_ , and until I find a way out of this— I’m going to have to live with it.

I lose complete focus of the lesson and start staring out of the window next to me, at the playground below. It’s vastly empty, but I see Mr. Walker walking past the gates again, his long legs stalking amongst the bushes. I’m so concentrated, that when he suddenly turns around and looks up at me, I almost lose my balance on my chair.

_Creepy_. A shiver runs down  my spine.

Through the window, I can hardly see the expression on his face, but, for all I know, it’s not a very friendly one.    



	2. cool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, :)
> 
> sorry for not updating for so long! life is everywhere.  
> anyway, i am in fact back with a new chapter. :0  
> this time you'll get Quint's take on getting up and discovering he's back in aWaKe-Wakefield.
> 
> enjoy reading!  
> gaya

**QUINT**

_Ever heard of disbelief?_  
  
You see everything in front of you take form, take shape, take place and happen. There. It’s happened. You can’t undo it, because it's hard to change the past, but what you’ve just witnessed is obviously not believable or trustworthy, because it makes no sense at all.   
  
Disbelief is the act of not believing. Not believing in reality, or in whatever else you’d want to ignore. And, sometimes, disbelief is a good thing. Otherwise you’ll end up being extremely unaware of everything that’s taking place around you.

It all sort of started when I woke up; exactly one minute after my alarm stopped going off, maybe because the ringing still kept echoing in my ears. My eyes were adjusting to the dimness of my room, because the darkness I was exposed to in my sleep had flushed out all of the light and made me feel extremely dizzy. Some kind of bigger and stronger power had been forcing my eyes shut, all until I could open them again.   
It was right then that I saw that I had woken up in my bedroom.   
  
If I would have to clarify my reaction, I _do_ technically have two rooms: one in our treehouse at the end of the world, and one in my old house. But I’m wasn't really living in my old house anymore, which is why I assumed I was dreaming in the first place.   
I was _definitely_ having some kind of post-apocalyptic fever dream.   
  
A fever dream is a term used to describe unearthly or disturbing dreams you can have while sleeping, especially if your body temperature is higher than average.   
  
Except, I didn't _feel_ like I had a fever of any sort. I just felt. . . _de-energized._   
  
_A Jack-word.  
_It’s his kind of thing, using or making up completely nonsensical terms that make June sigh and Dirk wince.   
I don’t mind them as much. 

But there was this one problem I was having, that I wouldn't directly refer to as a problem, where I wasn't exactly disturbed by what I was seeing. I actually liked this fever dream. Getting up in my old room and seeing everything around me, just like how I remember it: a small reminder of how it was back then; before the apocalypse. 

All the same, it didn’t really _feel_ like a dream. Was part of this reality? Or am I sleepwalking? And if I were sleepwalking, why in my old house? 

My train of thought and all the questions in my mind were roughly paused as soon as I heard my bedroom door open, the creaking of the hinges making me wince and squint at the figure in the bright morning light. 

Some kind of bigger feeling in my subconscious is telling me that this is definitely all happening in my head. I’d never see someone so real and casual in a fever dream at pretentious hours. Right? 

  
I mean, why on earth am I seeing my _dad_ here all of a sudden? 

* * *

Look, I have a hard time believing random circumstances without solid proof. Like when monsters started attacking Wakefield, and people started turning into life-life zombies, I didn't believe any of it. Not until Jack forcefully pushed us both off the bus before it 'crashed'.  
And that had hurt.  
  
The only viable option I saw right then and there was hurting myself so that I was put out of this dreaming state.   
Basically, I decided to pinch myself. _Hard_.   
  
You've probably seen it in movie or read it in a book. The main character pinches themselves to see if they're dreaming or really just in some kind of dangerous, life-threatening situation. And then _sometimes_ \- they go back to reality. Not necessarily, but it would be the most reassuring moment of the storyline for _anyone._

  
But the scene around me doesn't change after the pain subsides. It's exactly the same as before.   
I'm lost. 

“ _Dad?_ ”   
My voice cracks a bit, my question sounding a little more forced than I had expected it to be.   
"Quint?”, he asks, purposefully squinting his eyes and pushing it with his questioning tone. I know he loves making fun of me being all weird, but I didn't find that too amusing. Not when I'm completely all at sea and not fond of it at the same time. 

He’s really there, feet away, at my door. Sure, I’d panic, but it’s suddenly immensely tougher for me not to get emotional about seeing him. 

I can faintly hear him chuckling, but that’s only because my mind is turning it all into a white-washed background noise. Did I hit my head? 

  
I'm sure I must have had some sort of late reaction to seeing my dad in my not-really-fever fever dream. After months of completely convincing myself that my parents weren't dead or turned into lifeless zombies, I had finally seen the proof for myself. 

_Had I?_

But let's just say I was a little overwhelmed after pinching myself and then having to deal with the aftershock of everything. My dad's still there, standing in the doorway, wearing his usual home-trousers and bright green polo-shirt. I saw him like this almost every day of my life, as a work-at-home dad.   
_My_ work-at-home dad.   
He looked exactly like how I remembered him in the pictures I hung up in my treehouse-room, and in the photo-album Jack gave June and me to put our other family pictures in.   
He was too accurate to be that real in this very moment.   
  
I’m not sure I liked being so confused about it. _Was all of this supposed to be real? Is he really here?_

"Hey? Quint? You blacked out there for a second, boy. You okay?"   
  
_Go on, say something._   
  
"Yeah. . .I'm fi- I'm great, dad. Just. . . feeling a little drowsy." I say, my voice cracking again as I pick up the glass of water next to my bed and try to take a sip. I try to not look him in the eye, staring into my vague reflection on the water surface instead. I find it hard to swallow the water, there's a big lump of emotion in my throat that isn't showing any sign of going away.   
He raises an eyebrow, but he somehow keeps his typical morning smile on his face. "Alright son, if you say so. You coming downstairs?", he asks, his arms crossed over each other. “Mama’s made pancakes.” 

_Mom._ “She’s here too?” 

My dad throws me a questioning side-glance. 

“Yeah, well, of course your mom is here. What made you ask that?”   
_Shoot._

“Oh, uh– I just”, I sigh, “. . .had a weird nightmare. Just wanted to make sure you guys didn’t _actually_ get eaten by zombies. . .you know?” 

I’m trying not to get into a ramble right now. _Play it cool, Quint._

_“_ Well, sounds like a real bad one. Don’t forget to screw the toothpaste-cap back on when you’re done brushing.”, he winks before closing my door. 

I nod quickly, half-disappointed that he's gone again so soon. I watch him close the door behind him and then fall back onto my bed. 

I let out a deep breath. _He’s bought it,_ somehow. I can’t tell my dad about the mess I’ve gotten myself and the rest of the crew in. He knows nothing about my previous situation and he’s not supposed to. 

I turn my head towards my nightstand, watching the water in my glass slowly regain absolute stillness. 

I don't really have to wrap my head around anything at all. It’s not that I _don’t_ know how this unfolds; that it’s just beyond scary why I’m here all of a sudden and why my parents are at home acting like Wakefield stayed the same during their cruise. 

It shocks me completely, because I had no idea of how far we’d go back in our lives. This wasn’t _exactly_ what I was expecting. 

During the apocalypse, right before all of this, we found a portal. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t any ordinary kind of thing, because it looked unapproachably weird and unusual. Bardle called it a time-portal, but I found it extremely weird for a time-portal to appear out of nowhere like that; and June had agreed with me.   
It didn’t make any sense at the time. But I remember us being sucked into it, before any of us could reach out to finding proper help. 

We all thought it would take us hours back in time, maybe even a week or two. _Not actual months._

I don’t even know what date it is. It could be a month before the apocalypse, maybe even a week. But then we'd really be doomed. 

That gets me thinking anyway, and I suddenly jolt up in bed, the once still glass of water trembling again on my nightstand. 

I run over to my desktop, wildly clicking on the machine’s start button, my fingers shaking. 

_Come on, work with me here. I haven’t got all day._   
  
I really don't have that much time. The screen lights up, the blue display blinding me for a split-second. _Where are those stupid reading-glasses?_ I never liked them, and I vaguely remember throwing them away after we moved into the treehouse. But, they could still be somewhere in my room now.   
No time for searching those. My eyes flit across the screen. Monday, 6th of May, 6:30 AM.   
A school-day. 

For some reason, it only later hit me that my dad called me downstairs for that reason. He would've let me sleep in if it wasn’t a weekday. 

But my un-athletic legs were on autopilot, right back to my nightstand, half-stumbling because of my nerves. I open the drawer and slowly pull out my walkie-talkie. And then I freeze.   
_Should I dial it?_   
I have no idea if Jack’s going to pick up or not. Hopefully he’s come to the same conclusion as me, even if the instantaneous brainwash in the beginning seemed endless. I still have no idea on what we’re supposed to do now. 

Well, I _do_ guess I’ll have to go to school now. _Right_ . That’s the only thing I’ll be able to do today. 

While I’m getting dressed, again on autopilot, my head goes through the possible theories that could tell us how we’ve been brought here and how we get out of it. 

But _do_ we want to get out of it? I know how happy June’s going to be- or is. For all I know, she might not even show up at school. Seeing her parents again, being back in Wakefield; where the apocalypse hasn’t happened yet. . . _she’s going to feel terrible._   
  
_I think._

I’d call her, I’d get into contact with any of them right away. But I don’t have June’s number. I don’t know where Dirk lives. I didn’t know anything about them before the apocalypse, and that’s showing its negative side right now. 

I don’t know what to do on my own. If it was anybody who’d have an idea, then it’s always Jack who’s the ‘man with a plan’. _Always_.   
  
I feel myself taking a deep breath, and I walk to my nightstand again, concentrating myself on the walkie-talkie. My hands are literally shaking. How bad can this be?   
I dial the frequency Jack and I use all the time; no one ever uses the frequency on this level. It’s practically deserted.   
  
But all I get is static. Plain, _boring_ static.   
I don’t even Jack has his walkie-talkie on him right now. He’s not there.   
  
I gulp. He is there, right? We all fell into the portal. He’s there, he’s just not picking up.   
He’s just not picking up.   
  
With the now slightly dimmed confidence I always hold somewhere in me, I make my way downstairs, my expectations suddenly reaching beyond lower than before. Anything can happen once I see my friends again. Anything can go down.   
  
But there’s always my parents.   
  
My parents. They’re both standing at the kitchen sink, washing dishes and whispering to each other. They haven’t even noticed me, because I can literal hear myself aching to clear my throat to get their attention. So . . . I do.   
  
My mom turns around as soon as she hears me, her glasses nearly slipping off of her face. She gives me a warm smile.   
“Good morning, Quints. Ready for breakfast?” 

I can feel myself flinch a little at that nickname. I’m pretty sure I never liked it too much. 

But I’m kind of dumbstruck by seeing her in front of me again, meters away. It’s been so long since I’ve seen my parents, and the same feeling from before resurfaces-- the feeling of being reunited with the best people in world. . . 

And then, without hesitation, I run over to hug her; my two skinny arms around her waist.   
  
She’s not any more than a head taller than me now, but she’s there. And I can sense her surprise with the sudden embrace, but for an obvious reason I’m not pulling away.   
My mom smells like pancakes and chocolate and home-- and I’ve missed her. I’ve missed my dad. Both of them, a great deal. Even more than I can ever tell anyone.   
If I have to deal with dimensional and illogical stuff after this, then I’d rather finish the emotional part first; however long that’s going to take me.   
  
My mom evidently doesn't know exactly what I’m thinking about, but I know she’ll have her own interpretation of it. But I don’t think I mind.   
  
“Hey Quint?”, she finally says, removing my hands from her waist and holding them tight. “What was that?” 

Her eyes are shining. She’s surprised, I can see it. I was never a hugger, at least never before the apocalypse. But I didn’t know how starved I was for a simple hug from my mom until now. It was a complete impulsive decision.   
So, I was undeniably _not_ prepared for that question, but I went with whatever came up in me. 

“Eh,” I let her hands go, and start scratching the back of my neck. “I just had a weird dream. You know, like I was going to lose you.”   
She looks back at my dad, who’s been watching us interact for the past five minutes. He could’ve told her about that unreal nightmare, but I choose not to ask them about it. Their judgement.   
  
“Well,” she starts, turning her head back to me. “l think you mean _nightmare_. Not a dream. But, on a much better note: breakfast is ready and the clock is ticking. You might want start getting ready for school.” She taps my head and walks out of sight, over to the kitchen cabinet behind me.   
I know I’m feeling a whole lot better after seeing my mom. Seeing my dad. Both of them. 

Then I lose the next twenty-five minutes of my morning in pancakes with maple syrup, tying my shoelaces and forcefully avoiding too much eye-contact.   
  
Even if there’s one million things I’d be discussing with Jack and June and Dirk later, this is totally sudden. I’m listening to their voices again, the very same voices I’ve missed for months.   
I can play worried and overthinking 24/7. And, where’s the harm in talking to your parents again?   
  
But I know I have to get to school.   


***   


I know it’s childish to have your mom take you to school, but it’s been one of the most reassuring things so far. I didn’t know if I’d be ready to see all those unknowing faces on the bus again, because, _who_ knows who I’ll bump into there.   
  
Jack could’ve taken the bus, but that valid argument didn’t let my mother bother her. If carpooling only meant the two of us bonding on the way to our respective destinations, she’d have her way.   
  
I know that my mom is a busy woman. She’s always been. She’s worked at so many different travel bureaus, she knows almost every monumental area in Europe and Asia. Handy when you’re on vacation, but extremely time-consuming when it comes to helping her clients. I haven’t ever seen her relax for longer than five minutes. 

But my concentration is still completely on Wakefield.   
I know all the stores we’ve passed, all the different people I must’ve seen half-dead stumbling around the town. It’s. . . _weird._ Like we’re in an alternate dimension.   
  
It does make sense, in a way. Because. . .what if that portal wasn’t a time-travelling portal, _but a dimension-travelling portal?_ Nobody specified it, so anything could be possible.   
The more I subconsciously repeat it, the more dominant the thought becomes.   
Nobody specified it, so anything could be possible. No one was one hundred percent sure. 

My mom and dad are alive and well and _real_. Everyone in Wakefield is alive and well. No broken-down buildings and zombies running at you from every direction. And there aren’t any monsters jump scaring you at every turn.   
  
But how could we have left everything behind? If all those dangerous creatures and the zombie-virus came from another dimension, we could have been transported to another one too.   
The more I subconsciously repeat it, the more dominant the thought becomes. It makes sense.   
  
I suddenly feel the car stop, and I turn my head to look out of the window. We’ve reached my school.   
I can see the main grounds from here, past the gate. Student, so many students. It’s almost otherworldly for me, seeing all the people that could’ve have possibly been turned into the walking dead during the apocalypse. They’re doing completely fine, which is by far the least surprising thing of the morning.   
  
“ _Quints_? You okay?” 

My mom’s voice is sudden to hear and breaks through the silence in the car, making me turn back to face her. She’s looking at me with scrunched-up eyebrows, inquiringly, like I did something unusual.   
Maybe she knows I’m anxious in a way. Intuition? 

“Yeah, I’m fine, Mom.”   
  
A fraction of me would’ve said the opposite, but I’m not here to see my mom worrying over me. It’s always been the same thing; I get bullied, I ignore it and get hurt, and I come back acting like nothing’s happened. I never felt the need to stress her out with my problems. Especially because kids at school just haven’t matured enough to understand that a person can’t make autism go away. 

But as I turn away from her unchanged expression and look back onto the schoolgrounds, I see something.   
Correction: someone.   
  
Bright magenta sweatshirt, terribly made hair, field-hockey gear. . . 

_June_ . It’s _June_. 

She’s standing next to a girl in a corduroy jumpsuit, who seems to be talking her head off. But June doesn’t even seem to be paying attention to her at all. She’s staring into the distance, her mind clearly somewhere else.   
  
The first thing that struck my mind then, was: _June had other friends before the apocalypse?_   
But then I corrected myself with my second thought. 

_I have to get to her as soon as possible._   
  
“Quint?Is there something outside?”   
  
First thing’s first. Dealing with my mother. 

I turn back around in my seat, fiddling with the seatbelt. “Look, Mom, I’m sorry, but I really need to get to class now.”   
  
I’m not sure if it’s enough to leave her hanging with, because she’s opened her mouth again, and I still have no idea what she’s going to say.   
So, I take the silence as a chance to click open my seatbelt and make a motion to open the door.   
  
“But, Quint- don't you have anything to say to me? Are you sure?”   
  
I’ve already opened the car door now and I’m standing outside in the spring-light, looking at her through the window, my one hand still on the door handle.   
_Do I have anything to say to her?_   
  
I could tell her about how I _used_ to get bullied, but it’s such a terrible idea, all-in-all. Which bully leaves their victim alone after five deep months into a monster- and zombie-infested apocalypse filled with compromise disguised as nine consecutive hours of sleep?   
  
_“_ Mom, it’s just--”, I sigh and shift from one foot to the other. “Can I- can we have this conversation after school? I- I have someone to talk to.”   


Getting my mom off of my back is morbidly stressing and slightly above possible. Did I have to add that? I wouldn’t know anymore. She sceptically raises her eyebrow at me, and I’m fully expecting her to ask me questions about who ‘someone’ is.”   
  
“O-Okay, if you must. . .”, she decidedly sighs. I can see the wrinkles around her eyes strain in a small smile, her sudden acceptance putting me off.   


“But we’re talking after school.”   
There she is again. All I can do is quietly nod my head as I hear the students on the grounds behind me, and I turn my head towards them for a fraction of a moment.   
  
June’s still standing there, looking as lost as she can possibly look; like she’s searching for someone who isn’t exactly there.   
  
Right. _Me._   
I turn back to face the car, sticking my head through the gap between the door and window. “Bye, mom.”   
  
“Bye, Quints.” 

As soon as I’ve slammed the door shut and turned towards the gate, there’s a sudden surge in me to run in the opposite direction. But my mom has already pulled out onto the road I let my foremost important priority get in my way, and as soon as I’ve walked onto the school grounds, I can’t recognize anyone.   
  
_Stay calm, Quint. Stay cool._   
  
I try to remember where exactly I had pictured June and her talkative friend from where my mom had parked the car, but it’s suddenly become very blurry.   
Jack. He didn’t pick up his walkie-talkie for absurd reasons, so maybe he took the bus and came here, hoping I’d be here somewhere. That June and Dirk would be here.   
  
But before I can open my schoolbag and get out my walkie’, I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I turn around on my left heel.   
  
“Hey Quint.”   
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who do you think tapped his shoulder at the end? only time will tell us. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> there's honestly not much to expect of this one, but i definitely enjoyed writing Quint's perspective and how he sees and talks to his parents. :D
> 
> Have a great day/night!  
> gaya

**Author's Note:**

> here it is. the first chapter.
> 
> i'm hella' excited to write the next bit, so do stay tuned. :D
> 
> keep it 100,  
> gaya


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